


Guilt for Sins to Come

by Corycides



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: AU, Canon Divergence, F/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4843334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can't undo the past. Of course, you can't turn off the power to the world either. So who knows.</p><p>Rachel Matheson did the impossible once, now it is Charlie's turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guilt for Sins to Come

 

  1. “General Monroe will see you now."   
Charlie/Bass




 

Charlie knew what nuclear weapons were. Sort of. Aaron had gotten drunk at lunch time that day, frustrated with trying to explain things he could never demonstrate, so they’d never really gotten the whole story. She remembered  him saying your skin would melt off and everyone would die. 

Up on the screen the little red lines tracked over the country, heading towards Philadelphia. Charlie wouldn’t really care if Philadelphia got melted off the map, but would they die all the way out here too?

Aaron’s fingers were jabbing desperately at the keys, sweat dripping from his nose and his chin, which Rachel hovered at his shoulder. 

‘I can’t do it,’ Aaron declared suddenly, shoving himself violently away from the computer. ‘There’s no point, it’s over.’

Miles grabbed him by the shirt and shook him. ‘You  did  this, Pittman.’

‘Me?’ Aaron spluttered, wild-eyed and ready for a drink. ‘Rachel did this. She did this fifteen goddamn years ago. What do you want me to do, turn back time?’

Someone screamed ‘Yes!’. It was only when she felt the ache in her throat that Charlie realised it was her. Everyone turned to stare at her, like they’d forgotten she was there. She swiped her sleeve over her face and realised she was crying. Everything she’d lost, everything she’d thrown away to get here, to do this - all for nothing. ‘Turn it back, make it right. Please?’

It was Aaron who hugged her. Stupid, sometimes drunken Aaron who was afraid of bees and was the only one who really knew her anymore. ‘I wish I could, Charlie,’ he said. ‘I’d do it, I’d do anything to make this right.’

The world flashed and the sweaty, sad weight of him faded away. Charlie threw her hands up, screaming when she saw her bones through her skin, and thought this must be what it was like to melt. She saw her mother for a second, a pale shadow in the glare with terrible eyes. Maybe she was reaching for Charlie?

Then Charlie was…somewhere else.

 

Bodies shoved past Charlie in the street, shoulders hitting her as she stumbled. Irritated voices muttering that she was in the way. Charlie shook her head, blinking the swimming white glare out of her eyes. She looked around, trying to find something in the crowd of well-dressed bodies and tall buildings that made sense. Except there wasn’t. Even the sun was too low in the sky, and how could it be there at all when she’d been underground a second ago.

Panic was a hot weight in her chest, making her pant and scorching the air out of her lungs. She moved because that was all she knew to do when she was afraid. People were staring, nudging each other. Charlie dropped her head, hiding behind a tangled fall of pale hair, and let herself fall into step with the crowd. There was a woman with fruit in a basket. Charlie followed her for lack of anything better to do just now.

She rounded a corner and faltered, recognition hitting her like a body blow as she stared at the Monroe flags flapping from Independence Hall. It was Philadelphia. She was in Philadelphia, in the heart of the Monroe Republic. Which was about to be wiped out of existence.

Charlie looked up, eyes scanning the clouds for the rockets and their payloads of death. When the explosion came, though, it was from the side. The blast picked her up like a ragdoll and threw her across the road into a puddle of freshly broken glass. Charlie coughed and pushed herself up, glass digging into her braced hand. Her ears were ringing, a shrill high-pitched noise like a mosquito in her ear, and the world wobbled around her.

Feet raced past her, stumbling and frantic. A woman fell, feet twisting under her, and the people stamped over her.

Charlie scrambled to her feet and shoved her way through the stampede of bodies, using her elbows and heels viciously to earn her the space to move. Blood was dripping from the woman’s head, and she looked like she’d broken a finger. Charlie grabbed her arm and hauled her up unceremoniously.

‘Go!’ she yelled in the blank, fearful face, shoving at her shoulders. ‘Get help.’

The woman mouthed something. Charlie couldn’t make it out. She gave her another shove to get her moving, and turned to head in the direction of the explosion. A man’s foot sat upright on the pavement outside, still in its regulation issue militia boot. She could see the white, sheared off bone sticking up from the hairy calf.

It bothered her, but she didn’t think it bothered her enough.

People were screaming, crying, inside. It smelled like gunpowder and burned whiskey. Charlie scrambled through the window and started dragging people to their feet, shoving them towards the door. Half of them were in militia uniforms. A day ago she’d been shooting anything in those colours, but militia or not they were hurt and afraid. One boy - younger even than Danny - had a shard of glass in his eye, blood running down his face like a tear.

Charlie got him out the door, and turned back. The brick dust in the air caught in her throat, making her cough and splutter. She turned back to help a brick-dust covered soldier staggering under the weight of his barely conscious friend.

‘They’ll be another bomb,’ she said. Yelled probably, she still couldn’t hear. It had been Nora who told her that, mapping out the best way to kill the maximum number of people in an attack. At the time, Charlie had been impressed. ‘To take out the first responders. We gotta get out of here.’

‘Really?’ the man snapped. ‘And I was waiting for a  cake.’

Charlie ducked under the unconscious man’s arm, letting the weight of him drape over her shoulder. She hooked her hand in the back of his belt and staggered into a run towards the door. They got outside just as the second blast went off, heat and shrapnel slapping them across the back. Charlie went down on the road for the second time that day, feeling like her body was one big bruise.

The arm across her shoulders felt unbearably heavy. She finally moved just to get out from under it, and old habits made her fumble to get the man into the recovery position. Her jacket got stripped off and balled up to use as a pillow, shoved under his head as she pulled his jaw forward to clear his airway. Her fingers pressed against the hinge of his jaw, tilting his head up, and she realised who it was.

Miles. Clean shaven - for the first time ever - and not so tired looking, but definitely Miles.

She let go of him and scrambled backward, heels kicking at the ground. Her breathing was ragged and hitching in her chest, scraping at the raw flesh of her throat. This was impossible, everything that was happening was  impossible.  Except wasn’t that what Aaron had always said about the Blackout? So maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just improbable or...or something. 

A hand thrust in front of her face, fingers spread expectantly. She grabbed it automatically and was hauled up onto her feet, staring up into a face she’d hated for so long and so well it was almost more familiar than her own uncle’s. It was caked with dust, cracks around his mouth and in the corners of his eyes.

Monroe. 

He was saying something. Charlie still couldn’t hear him. She shook her head, gesturing at her ears. Instead of giving up, he tightened his grip on her hand and pulled her closer. The heat of his body pressed against hers, and he wrapped his free hand around the nape of her neck.

‘I owe you,’ he said, pale eyes intent on her face. The last time he looked at her like that, he’d been waiting to see her brains blown out the back of her skull. ‘The Republic owes you, and the Republic always pays its debts.’

Charlie gaped witlessly at for a second, then marshalled enough wits to manage a shaky nod. ‘Thank you, General,’ she rasped out. If he heard the bitterness in her voice, with any luck he’d put it down to the dust in her throat. 

 

Chapter Two

 

Monroe took the flask that Nora offered, taking a swig of stale water and swilling it around his mouth. All he could taste was smoke and dust. He spat the dirty water onto the road and wiped his hand over his mouth.

‘Who’s responsible?’

Nora grimaced, mouth tight and bitter. ‘Rebels, who else.’ She touched his sleeve, capable, tanned hand squeezing his arm. ‘General, we should get to a secure location. In case they try again. If Miles doesn’t make it-’ she hesitated, pain flickering over the severe elegance of her face at that idea. ‘...you’re the only commanding officer we have left.’

Under the sick grief and rage that filled Monroe, guilty, venal thoughts of Nora in need of comfort slid through his brain. Her hand on his arm, tearful dark eyes looking at him with the sort of admiration she gave Miles. He shied away from the thoughts, disgust at himself feeding into his temper.

‘I want the person who did this,’ he rasped. ‘I want their fucking head, Nora.’

‘For this?’ Nora said, giving him a look of perfect understanding. ‘I want them burned at the stake in front of Independance Hall. I will  find them, General.’

He nodded his approval and she strode off. Despite his best intentions, his eyes dropped to the sway of her ass with a bittersweet appreciation. He’d met her first, recruited her and her sister to freelance for the militia, but somehow it was Miles who’d made the connection with her.  

It was like a crack in the brain, the bitterness. He loved Miles like a brother, but there were times it didn’t seem fair. It was Monroe’s parents who died, his little sisters who bled to death on the road because the drunk asshole who hit them had run away instead of calling an ambulance, and his wife that bled to death with a baby that never got a breath. Meanwhile Miles had love and loyalty, the respect of the Republic, and occasionally Monroe wanted to take it away from him. Just so he’d know what it was like.

Maybe he hated Miles a bit, but not nearly as much as he hated himself.

‘Sir?’ Baker said, striding over. He was rubbing his eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot from the dust in the bar. There was blood on his uniform. It wasn’t his. ‘General Matheson is safely back at the Hall, the surgeons are with him. I’ve got the boys going through the debris, see if we can find any evidence about the bomber.’

Monroe swallowed the hot coal of his self-loathing and anger, sliding behind the familiar mask of President Monroe, commanding general of the Republic. ‘Good. Keep me updated. And bring the girl back to the Hall.’

Baker looked blank. Women were not his area of interest. 

‘The girl who helped me get Miles out of the bar,’ he said, gesturing vaguely in a guess at her height. ‘Short, grubby, had a brand but no uniform.’

A frown creased Baker’s face and he turned, looking over the crowd. ‘Deserter. Do you think she was involved?’

Bass hesitated, remembering watching her shove people out the door. No particular kindness, just urgency and fear. Blood on her ears, running her hair, and the shock in those ridiculously big eyes when she’d realised who he was. Hatred too - he knew that particular emotion too well to mistake it, even when she’d tried to hide it under her lashes - but mostly confusion and surprise.

‘Maybe,’ he said, because distrust was always safest. ‘You can’t miss her, she looks like one of those weird big-eyed velvet kid paintings that’s been in a fire.’

Baker snorted, rubbed his eye again, and nodded. ‘I’ll find her, sir. If she’s involved, we’ll get it out of her.’

‘I said, find her,’ Monroe said. ‘Not interrogate her. Just bring her back to the Hall, Baker. If she’s involved, I’ll deal with her.’

Baker waggled his eyebrows. ‘And if she’s not, you get to give her a bit of a presidential thank you.’

Monroe stepped forward, into Baker’s space, and gave him a cold look ‘Right now, Captain Baker, what I care about is General Matheson’s recovery, finding out who did this. Not fucking some fifteen year old coward. Understand.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Baker said. He scratched the back of his head absently. ‘Mind you, deserter or not, running  into  an explosion doesn’t sound like a coward’s decision.’

It didn’t. Or a rebels. 

‘Just find her,’ Monroe said flatly. ‘And leave the thinking to me.’

‘Always do, sir,’ Baker said cheerfully. The genial expression on his face faltered for a second, a hint of something genuine escaping his eyes. ‘Miles’ will be fine. Nothing else this shithole has thrown to us has slowed him down. We all believe in him.’

Monroe nodded sharply in acknowledgement, then dismissed Baker back to his duties. There was nothing else for him to do here. He stalked over to the carriage someone had brought from the Hall, grimly refusing to let the pain in his knee turn into a hitch in his step. He dragged himself up the step and slumped into the heavily padded seat, banging the roof to get the driver moving.

A whip cracked, a horse snorted and the carriage jolted forwards. Alone at last, Monroe reached into his jacket and pulled out a flask. It wasn’t water. He swigged down the harsh whiskey until the rattling clangour in his head settled down to a dull roar.

Sometimes he hated Miles, but without Miles who’d he even be? Monroe was a ghost with a graveyard for a soul, the only thing in it that was alive was Miles.

He needed more whiskey.

 

Chapter Three

 

‘Get cleaned up,’ the big man said, pushing Charlie politely but insistently into the room. Two days ago, rumour had it Captain Baker was dead. He’d got over it. ‘There’s clothes in the wardrobe. If you want anything, ask the guards. Any questions.’

She turned around and tilted her chin up, glaring at him. ‘When can I go home?’

He wrinkled his nose. ‘Any  other  questions?’

‘Can I have my knives back?’

Baker squinted and looked up at the ceiling, like he was thinking. ‘Yeah, I’m going with a no on that one. General Monroe isn’t real big on people running around his place with weapons.’ He leaned down. ‘Frankly, I don’t think he’s even that keen on me having them.’

He straightened up and stepped back out of the room, closing the door behind him. Charlie stared at the door and tried to feel any of the usual things: anger, determination, fear. None of those were working for her. She just felt exhausted and vaguely disconnected, like her brain was run through all the adrenaline fueled panic it could process. 

Besides, where was she going to  go? 

She sat down on the edge of the bed. It was weirdly soft and smelled like...raspberries. Charlie slid off the edge and bumped down onto the floor, pulling her legs up to her chest. She folded her arms over her knees, and rested her chin on her arms.

‘Turn it back, make it right. Please?’

Now she was here, six years in the past. Even in Wisconsin they’d heard about the Birthday Bombing - there had been sanctions, tripled tithes, increased militia presence and searches. Six years in the past. Miles hadn’t left the militia yet, in Wisconsin Maggie was midwifing calves and babies, Danny wasn’t dead, and Rachel was locked up here in Philadelphia. And somewhere, there was a Charlie whose world hadn’t fallen apart. A girl who collected pretty postcards and who’d never killed anyone.

It was a bit pathetic to realise that you hated a past version of yourself.

Charlie sighed and pushed herself to her feet, stripping her bloody t-shirt over her head. She needed a bath, and she wanted clothes that didn’t stink of death and blood. After that, she’d work out how to kill Monroe before he ruined her life...again.

 

By the time someone came back to get her, Charlie was scrubbed clean, wearing a militia uniform with no insignia, and she'd eaten all the fruit in the bowl on the table. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had an apple, sucking the tart juice from her fingers once she'd finished crunching the slightly mealy flesh.

'General Monroe will see you now,' the soldier said, holding the door open for her. Charlie wiped her fingers on her thighs and got up off the window seat. Part of her brain watched the man's stance, gauging how easy he would be to kill, working out the odds of her making it out of the building and to the sewer that they had once used to get in.

And then? What would she do then? There was no answer, once she got as far as the sewer she was on her own.

Charlie didn't kill the soldier at the door, she just fell quietly into step with him. Their footsteps echoed off the bare walls and shining tiled floors. There were paintings on the world, heavy stipples of rich colour of places she never go and people she was too stupid to identify. She indulged the mean little thought that Monroe probably hadn’t a clue either. The young soldier stopped as they reached a large foyer, a cracked bell the centre piece. There were two guards in front of the door, they looked more like the militia Charlie was used to. Dead eyes, practical hands, weapons ready.

‘I just wanted to thank you,’ her escort said quietly, quickly.

She glanced at him. 'For what?'

The soldier folded his lips in a shy smile. 'For what you did,' he said. 'Everyone has heard about it, you running into the burning building to help people, helping General Monroe carry General Matheson out before the second bomb went off. You're a hero.' 

Charlie squirmed away from that word. It was what they’d called Danny after they’d put him in the ground. Like getting himself killed was the best thing her brave, stupid little brother had ever done.

‘I just...I didn’t think,’ she muttered.

‘My boyfriend was there,’ her escort said. ‘He saw you, and everyone else running away. It was brave.’

‘Stupid,’ Charlie countered.

‘I’ve heard General Matheson say that’s the same thing,’ her escort said, grinning quickly. The guards at the door were frowning at him now, so he shrugged and lead her over the tiled floor.

‘You’re expected,’ Jim Hudson - not yet a traitor once, never mind twice - said, leaning over to push the door open. Her escort stayed outside as Charlie walked into the room. 

Four steps in and she stopped, nearly tangling herself up in her own feet. She should have expected it, all the dead were alive again, but somehow this was different. The wound was still fresh, the memory of Nora’s fingers going cold in her hand still right  there to be relived. Seeing her again, standing in front of Monroe in a bounty hunter’s waxed coat, knocked the air out of Charlie.

She wanted to laugh and throw her arms around her friend, tell her that it would be  different  this time. That Nora could have Miles, and the idiot could think himself lucky instead of brooding over his brother’s wife. Except Nora had no idea who Charlie was, and when she looked at her there was just impatience and contempt in her brown eyes.

It left Charlie twisting, breathless and lost. Luckily no one expected her to say anything. Monroe waved a hand at her, directing her to a couch, and turned his attention back to Nora.

‘Who was it?’ he asked. 

‘A workman,’ Nora said, folding her arms. Her hands cupped her elbows, squeezing tight enough to leave nail marks in the wax. ‘He’d been seen at anti-Republic meetings, and when we searched his house we found a flag and a rifle hidden under the floorboards. His wife worked at the bar, so he knew you’d be coming in.’

‘Who was she?’

Nora shook her head dismissively. ‘A cleaner. No one you’d care about.’

‘Was she involved.’

A second of hesitation as Nora bit her lips, the she shrugged, ‘He says she wasn’t. Does it matter? She still knew what he was, that he had contraband in the house. If she’d told someone, none of this would have happened. Miles wouldn’t be injured, maybe...’

She stopped, pressing her lips together, and looked away. Monroe reacted just like he was meant to, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. There was a sour taste in the back of Charlie’s throat, like pre-puke bile, and a wriggling suspicion in her brain that she didn’t want to trust.

Nora wasn’t a Rebel yet, she’d told Miles that she joined up after they’d left Philadelphia, after she’d left him. That was years away, so what if she hated this rebel for doing what she would one day. So what if she was playing Monroe, visibly playing him. She was a bounty hunter with a kid sister to support, she needed to keep Monroe on side. 

That was all, right?

‘He failed, that’s what matters,’ Monroe said. ‘Miles will be fine, and by tomorrow this rebel will be strung up for the crows to pick his eyeballs.’

Nora looked up at him. ‘It’s not enough. He hurt Miles, he tried to kill you. This was a blow at the very heart of the Republic. If he’d succeeded, we be licking Georgian boots by next month, and he came too close to succeeding. We need to make a point, we need the Rebels to know that if they come for  us... they’ll pay, they’ll  all  pay.’

‘You’re sure the wife knew?’

Nora nodded. ‘Her  and  the kid. He’s a teenager, he knew what was going on.’

Distaste twisted the corner of Monroe’s mouth. ‘Quite the nest of vipers.’ He let go of Nora and walked over to pour himself a glass of whiskey. Just like Miles, like the booze would make the bad decision taste better on his tongue. ‘String them all up. The whole family, maybe the next rebel will think twice about turning on me.’

Charlie bolted up off the couch, muscles tight and aching with the need to move and do...something. She stopped, pinned in place when Monroe swung cold eyes to her. He’d been drinking, she knew that glaze by this point, but there was a sharp nastiness there too. He’d not forgotten she was there.

‘Something you want to add?’ he asked.

Nora snorted. ‘Inviting your whores to chip in on policy now?’ she asked.

‘Not exactly. This is the young woman who helped save Miles this afternoon,’ Monroe said. Maybe he thought the flash of anger in Nora’s eyes was about jealousy. He certainly looked smug enough. ‘Introduce yourself to Nora.’

Charlie bit her lip and lied. ‘Maggie,’ she said. ‘Maggie Foster. I didn’t know who it was, people were just hurt.’

‘So if you’d known, you wouldn’t have helped?’ Nora jibed at her.

‘I don’t know,’ Charlie said. She hitched one shoulder in a shrug. ‘I wasn’t planning to draw this much attention when I arrived.’

Monroe surprised her with a laugh. Every now and again Miles would get shit faced and talk about ‘Bass’, some nights about how much he hated him and some nights about drinking with Bass in Afghanistan and how he was a good friend then. Charlie had always thought it was just wishful thinking, a skin of acceptable over a monster. The laugh was just a laugh though, genuinely - if briefly - amused.

‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘And this rebel clan, you don’t agree with my decision.’

Of course she didn’t. He was a monster and she...probably wasn’t, not yet. Charlie bit her tongue on that. Satisfying though it would be to spit at him, it wouldn’t help this poor family. She had to be clever, and just for once she knew more than anyone else in the room. So maybe she had an advantage.

‘You kill them, six years from now when people talk about today, they’ll not remember the people that died or think about what a disaster it would have been to lose both Generals at once,’ she said, starting slowly and then letting her tongue move faster. It was like trying to get your say in Aaron’s classroom, the most important thing was not giving an opening to interrupt. ‘They won’t say ‘thank god, General Matheson survived’ or ‘murdering rebel terrorist’. They’ll say ‘General Monroe murdered a whole family, he killed a little boy. They’ll call you a monster.’

Monroe leaned back in his chair, a frown ghosting over his face.

‘So?’ Nora asked. ‘Better a monster than a target.’

Something in Charlie’s heart cracked as she realised that Nora had lied about a lot of things. She supposed that, in a way, it had only been lies about the details - Charlie had known she was a Rebel, had known she hated Monroe, knew she’d set bombs. It had just been easier to accept, when Miles had been...exempt.

‘Stupid argument,’ she said. ‘Monsters  are  targets, every kid grows up with stories about Martha Jones defeating the Master and Luke Skywalker blowing up the Death Star. Maybe killing this family will convince some dad of ten not to join the rebels, but there’ll be a hundred people with nothing to lose convinced that killing you would make the world a better place. A thousand people who’ll remember every baby sized grave they’ve dug, and think the rebels are the heroes.’

Monroe had flinched when she talked about digging graves, his hand clenching around the glass. The black anger that crossed his face made Charlie flinch inside, the thought that she should be afraid occurring to her for the first time. Not very afraid, what else did she have for Monroe to  take , but enough to make her swallow hard and clench her fists.

His eyes dropped to her scraped-up knuckles and lingered, not shifting even as he tossed back the rest of his whiskey. ‘What punishment do you suggest then?’

Charlie shoved her hands behind his back, resenting his interest in some strange stubborn way. ‘I don’t know. I’m not a General.’

‘You’re a lieutenant-’

‘I’m not.’

His eyes finally drifted up to her face. He held his finger up and gave her a cold, practiced smile. ‘Don’t interrupt me again, Foster. You’ve got my mark on your arm. That means if you aren’t a lieutenant, you’re a deserter, and desertion will send you to the Georgian Front for the rest of a very short life. So,  lieutenant , answer my question. How would you punish the man that tried to murder your commanding officers?’

Nora spluttered. ‘You seriously listening to this kid? What is she, 18? What does she know.’

‘I’m about to find out,’ Monroe said silkily. He sounded almost pleasant, but Nora flinched and clenched her jaw shut. ‘Go on, Foster.’

‘Work detail,’ Charlie said. She hesitated, the idea hitting her tongue before it made any sense in her brain. ‘In the city, rebuilding the damage he caused. Make everyone who sees him remember the people who were killed, the ones that  were  innocents and victims. Shame his kid, so the last thing he wants in the world is to be like his father.’

The way that she’d always resented her Dad, hated the fact that other people called him a coward for not fighting back against the militia. She’d even thought about joining up, just to spite him. 

Monroe ran his thumb around and around the rim of the glass. Finally he lifted his hand to make a brief, graceful gesture, like he was throwing the command at Nora. ‘She makes a compelling argument doesn’t she? Take the family into custody, don’t do anything else yet. I will pass judgement tomorrow.’

The lean muscles under Nora’s jaw flexed, taut with the anger that she couldn’t spit out. With a flat, ugly look at Charlie, she inclined her head in acknowledgement and stalked out. She slammed the door behind her. Monroe chuckled and held his glass out to Charlie, jerking his chin at the cabinet of drink when she stared at him.

‘You’ve made your first enemy,’ he said.

Charlie took the tumbler and thought about spitting in it, just to make a point. Instead she took it over and poured a shot of whiskey into it, watching the ice cubes float and rattle.

‘She’s not my first enemy,’ she said, taking the drink back to him. ‘She’s not even the best.’

‘Really?’ he murmured, taking the glass. He was smiling as he drank, lips folded against the glass. ‘I’m surprised, you seem so agreeable.’

Charlie kind of regretted not spitting in his drink, but killing him would make up for it.

 

Chapter Three

She wasn’t fifteen. Monroe was  very  glad of that. He’d lost a lot of his illusions about himself since the lights went out, but adding pervert to his other sins seemed like overkill. Still too young for him - he had to admit, on the days his back tweaked and his twice broken wrist clicked - but...not fifteen.

Miles shoved a clip of chits forward into the pot and then reached for his beer. He pointed the bottle at Monroe.

‘She’s good for you.’

‘I’m not banging her.’

It was  close enough to the truth. The first time he’d kissed her, it been another game to try and pick out her loyalties. He expected her to recoil from him, or swoon eagerly into his arms: disgusted, or manipulative. Instead she’d kissed him back, twisting her hands in his hair and biting his lips with sharp teeth. He’d gotten his hands down her pants, like he was still some twenty five year old marine hoping to fucked in the back alley behind a club, and she’d cursed breathily against his throat when his fingers slid through wet curls. 

He’d brought her off with his fingers inside her, his mouth bruising her lips, and it had been partly because he knew it’d piss her off. She hated him - he  was aware of that - but he could still make her go limp and shivering, the only thing holding her up him.

He hadn’t fucked her, but the yet was hardly wishful thinking. He would have fucked her already if she was anyone else, screwed them both raw to scour the distraction of want out of his head. Except he would probably have to kill her if he let her get that close, and he wasn’t ready to give up on untangling the secrets under all that hair.

Besides, he wanted her to come crawling to his bed.

Miles snorted and swigged his beer, grimacing at the taste. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘I’m not saying you should shack up,’ he said. ‘Just she’s good to have around.’

‘Nora hates her.’

That odd truth made Miles frown and scratch at the edge of his eyebrow. ‘Yeah, I don’t get that,’ he admitted. ‘You’re...better...though, these last couple of months. Like you used to be. Like we used to be, you know.’

The words were like wedges hammered into the crack in Monroe’s mind, muscling it open another inch to let the toxic paranoia seep out like poison. Monroe covered it with a crooked smile and a folded hand of cards.

‘Maybe she’s watering down my whiskey,’ he said.

Miles snorted and slouched down in his chair, shoving a hand back through his hair. ‘Naw, sobriety doesn’t become either of us.’

The game wound up as it always did. ‘How is she?’ Everytime Miles sounded just a little bit more...broken, a little less angry. Monroe was starting to think that Miles’ understanding of Rachel’s usefulness as an asset was becoming confused with sentiment. Something might have to be done about that. For now he told his usual lie sandwich. ‘Fine. Unhelpful. Safe.’ and took his leave.

He walked back to his flat, ignoring the flanked guards with the ease of familiarity, and found the woman he’d asked for waiting for him. He didn’t know her name, and he didn’t want to either. She had blonde hair and blue eyes, a sweet smile and eager hips. She wouldn’t scratch his itch, but he’d already known that.

He unbuckled his belt, stripping it out of the loops slowly. ‘If I was in the mood to hurt you,’ he said. ‘Would that be extra or do I need to wait for someone else?’

She rolled over, offering her ass. ‘Extra. Nothing to the face.’

 

Blood filled his mouth, salt and copper behind his teeth. He spat to the side and grinned nastily at his opponent. ‘Sloppy. You just did that for your own satisfaction.’

For someone who lied, all the time, Maggie had a remarkably open face. Blue eyes flickered with a mixture of annoyance and...guilt. It was oddly touching, considering how much she hated him.

She tossed her head, shaking tangles of sun blonde hair out of her eyes. ‘Sloppy,’ she countered. ‘You’re just buying time to catch your breath.’

That caught him on the raw of his pride. He closed with her again, trading punches and jabs across the training field. He got his foot behind her ankle and flipped her, dropping her to her back in the packed dirt. He had a second to enjoy the view, then she kicked him in the stomach and scrambled to her feet. 

She was good. Not good enough. Monroe caught a punch on his forearm, deflecting her fist, and buried his fist in her stomach. She went down like her strings were cut, her body shutting down everything except the need to get air back in her lungs. Monroe crouched down next to her, wiping the sweat off his face before it dripped on her.

‘Give up,’

She rolled her eyes to give him a dirty look through her hair. ‘Hate. You.’

Monroe gave in to the temptation and stroked her hair back from her face. His thumb fit nicely under her chin. ‘So you’ve said.’

He offered his hand and hauled her up onto her feet, catching her as she wobbled. Someone clapped and Monroe stiffened, shoving Maggie back onto her own two feet. Miles sauntered out of the shadows of the door, loose boned and graceful.

‘Nice moves,’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ Monroe said.

‘Not you. You’re sweating like a pig and don’t keep your guard up,’ Miles mocked. He winked at Maggie. ‘The kid’s got a knack, though.’

Monroe glared at him, raking his sweat wet curls back from his face. He was not...keen...on Miles spending that much time with Maggie. Everyone picked Miles over him, even  he  would if he had the chance. He didn’t intend to give Maggie the opportunity.

‘What is it.’

Miles face went serious and he jerked his head in an unsubtle request for privacy. ‘I was wanting to talk about our guest.’

Of course. Monroe dismissed Maggie and stripped his shirt off as he walked over to the bench. Miles tossed him a bottle of water and sat down, bracing his elbows on his knees. ‘If it makes you feel better, she’s looking.’

‘Probably to see if she left any bruises. What is it?’

Miles rubbed his thumb over pursed lips. ‘Rachel. It’s been years, Bass, and she’s given us nothing. Maybe she’s telling the truth that she doesn’t know anything? Even if she’s lying, five years - she’s not going to give us  anything.’

Ducking his head, Monroe poured water over his head. Something was definitely going to have to be done about that.

 

Chapter Four

Lieutenant Maggie Foster didn’t like or trust Nora Clayton. The bounty hunter seemed to return the favour. It made Charlie’s heart hurt - but she couldn’t change it. Maybe Nora would change over the next six years into the woman that Charlie loved like a sister. Or maybe their friendship had always, and only, been conditional on hating Monroe.

Not that Charlie had stopped hating him, it was just not as openly as before. 

Charlie paused on the threshold of the Quartermaster’s office, frowning at Nora’s back. Nora was sitting on the edge of Kipling’s desk, laughing about something over an open bottle of whiskey. Her shirt was unbuttoned and she was leaning one-armed on the desk, body angled to make her shirt gape and flash boob.

‘Captain Kipling,’ Charlie said. ‘Are you busy?’

The line of Nora’s back tensed subtly and she pushed herself upright. She patted Kipling on the cheek and slid off the desk, tugging her jacket straight. ‘I’ll let you get back to work, Kip,’ she said. ‘Let me know when the next poker game is.’

She winked at him and left, not even bothering to pretend shoulder ramming Charlie was a mistake. The door slammed behind her.

Kipling twisted the lid on his bottle and wiped his lips, hitching his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about Clayton, Foster. She’ll get used to it.’

‘Uh huh,’ Charlie said, walking over to the desk. She handed Kipling the requisitions form and, while he was rubber stamping it, she glanced over the paperwork on his desk. Patrol schedules, delivery rotas, troop movements.

Doylestown.

Charlie touched the paper, tapping her finger as a physical placeholder while her brain scrabbled for the reference. No one had cared much for about the Republic in Sylvania Estates, only when the Plains raids came over the borders or the tithe was due. What news they got was three months old, on tattered leaflets in faded print. Back then, she’d not much cared. Her old postcards painted a much more interesting picture of the world than the newspapers did.

Doylestown. The Rebels had bombed a militia recruitment station, killed a bunch of cadets and civilians. Her Dad had told Maggie, ‘they want people to be as scared of them, as they are of the militia’.

‘See something interesting, Foster?’ Kipling asked.

Charlie looked up abruptly, realising that Kipling had been waving the piece of paper under her nose for a while.

‘Captain...’

He frowned, grizzled eyebrows scrunching over his nose. ‘Spit it out, Foster.’

‘Off the record?’ 

He sat back, chair creaking. ‘Spit it out.’

‘Clayton visit often?’ she asked.

‘We’re friends,’ he said, crossing his arms. ‘Some people don’t want to spend all their time currying the General’s favour.’

The accusation poked Charlie on the raw. Her chin squared and she leaned forwards, bracing one arm on the desk. Kipling’s eyes drifted.

‘Does she always flash her tits at you over whiskey?’ she asked. ‘Keeping your eyes right around here, while your maps are spread out all over the desk?’

That got Kipling’s eyes back on her face. ‘What the fuck you mean by that, Foster?’

‘Nothing I want going up to Monroe,’ she said, pushing herself back up. ‘Nothing I want to get anyone hung for. Just...how often have people said it’s ‘like the Rebels know where we’re going to be’?’

‘You think  Clayton is involved? She’s fucking Miles.’

Charlie shrugged. ‘I don’t know if she's involved or not, that’s not my place is it? If she was, what better way to get her hands on info than by being all up in the General's business?’

‘Could say the same about you.’

She shrugged and folded the requisitions form, tucking it into her shirt. ‘So say it. Just for your peace of mind though, change the routes, shake up the schedules. If I’m wrong...no harm done.’

Kip took his bottle out again, twisting the cap off. He poured a shot into the mug. ‘And if you’re right.’

‘Doesn’t prove anything,’ Charlie said. ‘Just keep the door closed more often. I’m not after getting anyone killed, or going up against Matheson.’

She left. Nora was waiting for her in the corridor.

‘Do you have a problem with me, Foster?’ she asked, getting into Charlie’s space. Her head tilted and she smiled, thin and dangerous. ‘Because I’ve been with the militia for years now. You really think anyone is going to throw me over just because you shook your scrawny ass at them?’

Charlie glanced around. There was no-one in the hall, just a miserable looking cadet scrubbing the floor at far end. She turned back to Nora, smiling up into her face.

‘I think you’re a rebel,’ she said. ‘I think that  you  set the bomb at the bar, and then  you  tried to goad Monroe into committing an atrocity.’

Nora rolled her eyes and laughed, flawlessly confident. ‘Really? Me, a rebel? I’ve brought more rebels in than any other bounty hunter in the militia.’

‘Maybe I’m wrong,’ Charlie said. ‘Maybe if I stuck my nose into every one of those arrests they’d be clean and above board: no-one with a shiny fresh tattoo, no-one whose arrest caused unrest in the community, no single Rebel whose arrest meant losing a whole cell. What do you think?’

If Charlie really had been Maggie Foster, she’d have died there. Nora laughed, showing her teeth and her tongue, and looked away in exasperated amusement. Her hands flashed out, one to grip Charlie’s shoulder in a friendly looking vice and the other punching a knife into Charlie’s gut.

Charlie knew she was right, and she’d been expecting the move. She twisted out of the way of the knife - most of the way out of the way, she felt heat slice along her ribs - and grabbed the arm Nora had on her shoulder. 

The boy that Nora'd been encouraging Monroe to kill had been 12. About the same age as Danny. She’d have known that too if Miles ever talked to her, maybe that was why she’d picked the family. It was why Charlie didn’t just toss Nora. She grabbed her wrist instead and twisted, locking the elbow so that when Charlie punched up the joint just popped out of true.

Shocked carved Nora’s face and she made a strangled, whining noise. Charlie felt sick, but she used the arm to push Nora to the ground.

‘Look, I don’t care if you’re a Rebel,’ she said. ‘It’s stupid, but nobody has made that illegal.’

‘We’re Americans,’ Nora hissed at her through white lips. ‘We have rights, we have history, we-’

‘You are history,’ Charlie said. ‘You think you fly the flag, and suddenly all the other republics and nations are going to go ‘oh yeah, elections?’.’

‘I think freedom is worth fighting for.’

Charlie let go of her arm and stepped back, pressing her hand to her side. It still didn’t hurt, but her fingers were wet. ‘Maybe. I don't know if a  flag is worth killing for,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it’s not worth killing children for.’

Nora licked her lips and struggled back to her feet. ‘If I tell Miles you attacked me...’

‘Go ahead,’ Charlie said. ‘I don’t give a fuck.’

‘They’ll  hang  you.’

‘You’ll still be burned, Clayton. Look, I know you hate Monroe. I get that. I just don’t see how you can stand becoming him?’

 

It was just a scratch. Charlie wiped a crumpled of flannel over her ribs, soaking the dried blood away from the cut on her ribs. It stung, but it probably didn’t even need stitching. Once it was clean she pulled her shirt back on, fiddling absently with the buttons as she heard Kip’s voice in her head.

Same could be said for you.

It wasn’t that Charlie had never thought about it. When she was fourteen, anytime she’d been able to get five minutes privacy she’d thought of nothing else but fucking Sebastian Monroe in various unlikely situations; since he killed her father and stole her brother, she’d thought of nothing else but killing Sebastian Monroe. Sometimes, the wires got crossed. Her masturbation fantasies had gotten pretty...bloody, and intense since travelling with Miles and Aaron meant very little time to herself. 

And she...wanted to, wanted him. More than just his hand between her legs or the hard ridge of his cock through his trousers, pressed against the palm of her hand.

It wasn’t that she stopped hating him, even if it hadn’t happened  yet  she remembered salt tears and wet dirt on her hands. Monroe was just… Charlie could see why Miles had always been conflicted about killing the man. There was something  beautiful  in him, but it been ruined at some point. You could see it sometimes, when he laughed or let himself feel something that wasn’t anger or suspicion.

He laughed at Charlie’s jibes, a careless grin taking over his whole face like this was a world that was worth smiling at. He’d given her a present at Christmas. A careless thing, conserves with a label and everything, but Charlie hadn’t had a Christmas present since the Blackout. There’d always been something more important to worry about. 

It wasn’t a good enough reason not to kill him, but it had worked its way under her skin enough that Charlie regretted it.

There was a dress she’d bought in the market, stretchy lace cut to flash everything she’d got. It was like the one Drexel had dolled her up in. She tried it on once, then stripped it off and chucked it in the bottom of the locker belonging to Lieutenant Foster.

Waste of money, she’d fretted. As if it was...real, the money, Foster’s odd, precarious life. It had only been six months, but she thought she’d miss it. After she did what she’d been sent here to do, after she killed Monroe.

Before she lost her nerve entirely.

In the end she just wore the uniform she’d gotten too used to, She stood in the foyer staring at her reflection in the polished surface of the bell, until Jim grunted and waved her through the doors.

Monroe was slouched behind his desk, jacket lying open over a well-worn jersey. He looked drunk but the decanter at his elbow was half full. When he was drinking to get drunk, he drank to the dregs.

‘Kipling has decided to restructure the entire damn recruitment process,’ he said, sitting back. ‘Changes effective immediately, I’ll be writing orders all weekend.’

Picking up the decanter he poured himself a glass and looked at her, tilting the decanter in question. Charlie could have done with the drink, but she didn’t want to give herself any outs later. She shook her head, and Monroe restoppered the decanter. He lifted the glass to his lips, attention already back on the paperwork.

‘What did you want, Foster?’ he asked.

Charlie hooked her thumbs in her pockets, rocking her weight onto the outer edges of her boots. ‘You’re probably too busy,’ she said. ‘Or too drunk to be up for it.’

He looked up, eyebrows slowly raising as he set the tumbler down with a click on the polished wood of the desk. ‘If you want to spar, Foster, I can always sweat the booze out.’

Charlie unbuttoned her shirt collar, fingers loosening enough buttons to flash the soft curve of her breasts. ‘Just take your goddamn pants off, Monroe.’

 

Chapter Five

 

As far as Monroe’s cock was concerned, his birthday had arrived early and wrapped in a militia uniform. His brain sneered at the idea that nice things happened out of the blue, not to him anyhow. He slouched back in his chair, tracing a finger around the rim of his glass, and looked Foster from her sun-blonde hair to the hands fidgeting at her waist. 

Too young. Too stubbornly good - because using the word ‘innocent’ about a woman when he’d licked the taste of her from his fingers made him feel like a pervert. Miles got girls like her. Bass got the shameful fuck and the regrets.

He lifted his hand and spun his index finger in a slow circle. Foster looked confused. ‘Turn around,’ Monroe said. ‘If I’m going to buy the cow, I want to see the goods.’

If he’d slapped her she couldn’t have gone redder, or done it faster. Her chin went up and she glared at him furiously. Angry or not, she turned slowly around so he could see the tight curve of her ass...stalking away towards the door.

‘Foster.’

‘Go to hell,’ she threw back over her shoulder.

‘Lieutenant,’ he barked, putting the crack of command in his voice. Foster was a piss poor excuse for a soldier in a lot of ways, but six months had been enough to teach her to pay attention to that tone. Her hand froze just shy of the handle, outstretched fingers scarred and practical.

He wanted to see those fingers around his cock, twisted in the sheets of his bed as she came. If she was playing him, he’d deal with that later.

‘I like my women obedient,’ he said. ‘When I say jump, they don’t tell me to go to hell.’

She turned around, the soft line of her mouth twisted angrily. ‘Go to hell, sir?’

He tossed back the rest of the whiskey, the burn hot against his throat, and stood up. ‘Come here, Maggie.’

Her eyes flickered down to the scarred toes of her boots. ‘I...No. You’re right. This is a bad idea.’

‘I’m not going to beg.’

‘That’s not what I want.’

A bitter taste bloomed on Monroe’s tongue, but it was almost reassuring. She wasn’t as pure as she acted after all, and at least this made the transaction simple. She got what she wanted; he got her, bent over any piece of furniture he took it into his head to have her on. 

‘What  do  you want then?’

She rubbed the back of her hand over her cheek, looking awkward and uncomfortable.

‘I just like it when you smile,’ she said. ‘I wanted you to smile. Sir.’

The wash of anger that went through Monroe seemed to come from nowhere. It was just a formless wave of red that filled him from heels to ears. Even the air felt hot in his lungs. He closed the distance between him and Foster, grabbing a handful of hair at the nape of her neck. It felt warm against his palm, like sun warmed silk.

‘Do you think I’m some fuck-addled farm boy?’ he asked, yanking her head back. It was strange to remember how slight she was. She had so much attitude, it was only when she was standing in front of him that he realised she barely came up to his shoulder. ‘Is that how this plays out in your head? You spread your legs, and I see the promised land and change my wicked ways? What were you going to call yourself, First Lady of the Republic.’

She tried to ram her knee into his balls. He blocked with his thigh, feeling the dull thud of pain up through the muscle. Maggie twisted, trying to get leverage, and he twisted her around, his arm around her chest to hold her skin. 

‘Get off me,’ she hissed, stamping back onto his foot. Her ass rubbed against him as she squirmed, making him swear into the tangle of her hair. ‘I should have-’

‘Probably,’ he said. ‘I want you, but I’m not  nice  or  sweet.  If you want to fuck, good. I want you. Don’t delude yourself it means anything, or that you mean anything.’

Her head dropped back against his chest. There was nothing relaxed in the sudden laxness of her body, it felt more like weariness than surrender. ‘I don’t. Trust me, I don't want anything from you.’

It was stupid that that stirred the hot anger up again. Unfair too. Monroe rested his cheek against her head, breathing in the smell of her. ‘Do you want to leave?’

She made an odd, hitching noise that started in her chest and didn’t quite make it into a laugh. ‘No,’ she admitted, anger cracking her voice. ‘I still want to fuck you.’

He kissed her neck, lips lingering against the soft skin, and slid his hands down her stomach to unbuckle her belt and undo her trousers. She was breathing raggedly, the shadowed rise and fall of her breasts under her loose shirt ridiculously fascinating. He was the General of the Monroe Republic, he could have any woman he wanted. He had had any woman he wanted. A pretty enough girl with beautiful eyes should have been an afternoon’s entertainment.

Not this.

He pushed the trousers down over slim thighs, his thumbs sliding over pale, gilt freckled skin. When his hand cupped the soft mound of her sex, his fingers slide easily inside her. She was drenched, slickness clenching around him.

‘I don’t like you,’ she said, reaching up to wrap her hand around the nape of his neck. Her fingers tightened as he dragged his thumb over her clitoris, nails digging into the nape of his neck. 

‘Neither do I,’ he told her, biting the curve of her shoulder hard enough to make her gasp. 'Take your shirt off.'

She fumbled the buttons open, fingers faltering to a halt and her breath hitching every time he did something particularly right. Monroe took mental notes. He didn't particularly expect a repeat performance of her straightforward offer - a cool part of his brain, somewhere behind the lust and anger, was aware he had ruined that for himself - but he didn't intend this to be a one time thing either. He got to get tired of her.

The last button slid free, her shirt falling open, and she reached down to cover his hand, pushing him to go where she wanted. Monroe let her, sliding his free hand up to her cup her breast. She was wearing a soft lace bra, only a few shades darker than her skin. He scraped his thumb over her nipple through the lace, making it blush and harden under his attention.

‘Did you wear this for me?’ he asked.

‘You, Jim, whoever was handy,’ she said, voice ragged and catching. ‘Don’t ask stupid questions. Sir.’

He pinched her clitoris between a callused thumb and forefinger, feeling the jolt of her body against him. ‘Next time you call me ‘sir’, you’re going to mean it,’ he said, voice scraping in his throat. His hand tightened around her breast, squeezing the firm handful of it. ‘And then you’re going to suck my cock.’

She shuddered at the promise and came, fluttering around his fingers. The low, mewling noises that escaped her clenched jaw were nice, but he wanted her to scream. Her body was lax against him, shivering with the aftershocks. He pushed her over to the couch and bent her over it. She braced one knee against the cushions, the other stretched out in a taut line to the floor. Her hands grabbed the back of the chair, fingers wrapping around the wood frame. The curve of her ass was pale and perfect, the taut lines of her inner thighs slick and shiny with arousal.

Monroe gripped her ass, spreading the cheeks to expose the wet folds of her sex. He wanted to taste her, chase the damp saltiness of her with his tongue, but he was so hard it ached up into his stomach. If he didn’t fuck her now, he’d come in his uniform like a cadet at a whorehouse for the first time.

‘Are you fucking anyone else?’ he asked, unfastening his trousers and shoving them down with impatient hands. One hand gripped his cock, thumb rubbing slick come over the head. She glanced over her shoulder at him, hair falling over face. Her wheat pale eyebrow lifted.

‘Would it matter if I was?’

‘After this, you won’t be,’ he said, pressing the head of his cock against her wet slit. ‘I don’t share.’

‘Not even with General Matheson?’ she asked pointedly, the jibe sliding home like a needle. ‘I mean, I’ve heard-’

Monroe gripped her ribs and thrust into her, burying the length of his cock in her. Whatever she’d heard got tangled up on her tongue, losing place to a whimpering gasp. She pressed her mouth against her arm, the slim line of her back arching. Throttling back on his control, his nerves wringing with hot pleasure, Monroe leaned forward to growl in her ear.

‘Not even Matheson,’ he rasped. ‘Not you.’

A shudder ran down her spine and she pushed back into him, sinking his cock just a breath deeper inside her. He was pretty sure she’d not fucked anyone else for a while. She was tight as a glove around him and there was a hunger to the way she rose to his touch, wet before he even touched her. Lust cramped through him, hot and wet, and he straightened up. Gripping her hips with both hands, fingers curling around the arch of her hip bones, he slid out of her slowly. His cock was wet with her, and she whimpered when he didn’t immediately bury himself in her again. She tried to push back onto him, but Monroe tightened his grip on her to hold her in place.

The thought of leaving his fingerprints on her, bruise outlined evidence of his possession, didn’t bother him. It did snap the tight rein he’d been keeping on himself. He fucked her hard, yanking back on her hips as he drove his cock into the clutching heat of her. She flexed her fingers against the wall, tendons standing out against her skin, and urged him on with eager, wordless noises. Tangled hair, wheat blonde and sun-light gold, hung over her face.

She could have been fucking anyone.

Monroe pulled out abruptly, ignoring the stitch of discomfort through his groin, and rolled her over. She sprawled out on the couch, breasts spilling out of her bra, and stared up at him with confused, lust glassy eyes. That long, mobile mouth of hers didn’t even have a ready jibe.

‘I want you looking at me,’ he said, gripping her knees and tugging her ass towards the edge of the couch. ‘You don’t get to fuck me and pretend it’s someone else.’

A hand brushed sweat-glued hair off her forehead and she tilted her head to the side. Her mouth quirked in a crooked, unexpectedly bitter line. ‘It’s  always  you,’ she said. It sounded like an accusation. He wouldn’t have believed her if it hadn’t. ‘I touch myself, and it’s you.’

‘Good,’ he said. 

He crawled on top of her, mouth moving hungrily over her sweat-sweet skin. Teeth and tongue left sucker-bruises on her collarbones and the slopes of her breasts. He sucked on her nipples through her bra, lace scraping his tongue as she arched up into his mouth.

Long legs hooked around his hips, pulling him down. When he slid his cock into her this time, he saw her bite her lip and squeeze her eyes shut. Sharp white teeth chewed the soft curve of her lips into tender redness.

Monroe rocked against the cradle of her hips, her heels pressing against the backs of his thighs. Her hands grabbed his shoulders, raking her nails over his skin. Leaving her own marks on him. He didn’t mind that idea either.

She threw her head back, baring the pale, tight line of her throat. ‘Monroe,  fuck, please?’

He grabbed her chin and pulled her head down, making her look at him. ‘You can call me sir now.’

The grin startled him. He’d seen her smile, it was crooked and wary. This wasn’t. It took over her whole face, creasing the corners of her eyes and scoring dimples in her cheeks. 

‘Sir, yes, sir,’ she mocked him.

He bent over and slanted his mouth over that grin in a hungry kiss, like he could drink down the sunny joy of it. Steal it for himself before she spent it on other people. The muscles in his thighs pulled into tight knots, his ass clenching, as he thrust into her. The flutter of her orgasm closed around the shaft of his cock, her body tightening in pleasure for a second time. Despite what he’d told her, she shoved her hand against her mouth - stifling her gasps against her knuckles. The flex of her body dragged Monroe over with her, spilling his come inside her with a hip-bone bruising thrust.

Boneless with release, he sprawled on top of her. One hand idly stroked her arm, picking out the play of muscle under her skin, then drifted over to her caress his ribs. His fingers found something wet and thicker than sweat, blood bright on his fingers when he looked at them.

Sweat, tears, and the silence of a dead baby. His hands covered in blood, dripping with it.

The memory caught Monroe off guard, sinking ragged teeth into him. He breathed it out and propped himself on his elbow, looking down at the girl under him. A dribble of blood marked her side, leaking from the raw slash that scratched up over her ribs.

‘What happened.’

‘Nothing.’ She stretched under him, his cock sliding wetly out of her, and pulled him down for a kiss. ‘Just misjudged someone.’

 

Chapter Six

 

Monroe lay sprawled out on black silk sheets, arm cocked behind his head. His ink stood out against his forearm, black and smooth. Charlie ran her finger over it, feeling his muscles tighten under her touch.

‘Looks better than mine,’ she said.

He pulled her arm down and kissed the crooked smear of scar tissue. His tongue ran over it, feeling the roughness of it. ‘I like my mark on you,’ he said. 

‘It hurt,’ she said. Sometimes in her dreams she could still smell charred flesh, feel her arm throb all the way to the shoulder.

‘So did mine.’

He tugged her arm, rolling her on top of him. She straddled his hips, sitting up with her hands resting against the hard ridges of his stomach. There were bruises on her thighs - teeth and fingers - but his back was welted from her nails. So evens.

Monroe ran his hand up her thigh, fingers settling into the crease at her groin.

‘You said you thought about me when you had sex.’

Charlie shook her hair back from her face, gathering it up off the sweaty nape of her neck. ‘Well, you were right there.’

He slapped her ass. ‘You said always, even when you were masturbating.’

Charlie pulled a wry face. ‘I wanted  out  of the farm I grew up on, I wanted to go places, see things. So given the choice of thinking about the President of the Republic and thinking of Jimmy Sloan, who used to hide under windows and wank, I picked you.’

He smiled - at last - and drawled, ‘Flattering. Tell me what you thought about.’

‘Nothing special - just you being sweet to me and taking me to all the places in my postcards.’

Monroe caught her hand and pulled it to his lips, kissing her knuckles. ‘I am...sorry...that’s not who I am?’

Charlie breathed in. His come was inside her, his cock under her ass showing a certain interest in another round. If she thought about all the ways this was fucked up, she’d start screaming. Somewhere in this city her mother was in prison. Charlie had looked, but she couldn’t find her. Sometimes she was pretty sure her mother wished she’d died instead of Danny, but she was still her mother.

‘That’s ok,’ she said. ‘I’m not that sweet anymore either. These days, what I want skews...wrong.’

Her hand was still at his mouth. He bit her thumb, teeth prickling around the pad. His eyes were intent on her, fascinated in a shallow way. ‘Tell me.’

A gun at her head, the fascination in his eyes as he waited for her to die. Her stomach cramping like he’d just put his hand between her legs - and what the hell?

‘I think about you under me.’ She wriggled her ass on his cock, giving his cock some encouragement in joining in that next round. ‘Only your hands are tied to the headboard.’

She took his wrists and lifted his arms, leaning forwards to pin them to the pillow beside his head. Her breasts brushed against his face and he slid a wet kiss over her nipple, grazing his teeth over the tender bud. Charlie bit her lip, heat flowing through her, and the casual caress. When she straightened up, the gun Monroe had set on the nightstand was heavy and cold in her hand.

He stiffened under her. Not that his cock lost interest, it was pressing insistently against her backside. 

‘And I have this,’ she touched the muzzle to his temple, ‘to your head.’

‘Foster...’ he said, the word careful in his mouth. Her finger was on the trigger, just resting on it. 

‘You asked,’ she reminded him. ‘And I have the gun, that gives me the power doesn’t it?’

The moment for being  sure  she could kill him had passed. For that she needed to pull the trigger already. Odds were still in her favour though, if she pulled the trigger now. 

‘Then what?’ he asked. 

She could shoot him, watch those blue eyes go dull. Then what? She’d be killed - but she’d still be in Sylvania Estates, maybe she’d never leave this time. Miles would probably let Rachel go, but did she even know where they were now? Monroe would be dead.

‘Then this.’

Charlie raised herself up on her knees and reached down, adjusting his cock so she could lower herself on it. An almost lazy pleasure washed through her, riding the edge of pleasure and pain on over-stimulated nerves.

A steady hand held the gun against Monroe’s temple as she moved up and down on him, stirring a slow burn heat in her stomach. She bit her lower lip, folding it between her teeth, and braced her free hand against the flat of his stomach.

When she closed her eyes, Monroe reached up and took the gun out of her hand. She let him, wrapping herself around him as he rolled her over onto the mattress. His hand buried itself in her hair, twisting it around his fingers, and he kissed her as he moved on top of her.

 

Charlie sat at the dinner table, fingers wrapped around a chipped mug of herbal tea. It tasted horrible, but it smelled like Danny and childhood. On the shelf over the stove, Danny’s old toy bear stared down with beady stone eyes. He’d been a cop once, but his fancy uniform had been lost piece by piece over the years. Along with a lot of fur.

It was winter now. Charlie was cold, and tired. It had been a long ride from Philly. She nursed her tea and waited for Dad to get back. The rest of the town was at the fair. It was - she supposed, after seeing the Tower and Georgia - a poor enough thing, but they always went. Dad never stayed long, always excused himself early.

It was a long cold wait until the door opened and Ben let himself in, cup of home-brewed cider in his hand. 

‘Hey.’

He jolted in place and stared at her, squinting into the dimness. Recognition drew a startled ‘Charlie?’ out of them, then he remembered he’d left her down by the bonfire. His hand twitched towards the panel on the wall where they hid the shotgun.

‘Sorry,’ Charlie said. She kicked the seat opposite her, the shotgun lying cracked and empty on it. ‘I didn’t want things to escalate.’

Ben stared at her, recognising the differences six years and a lot of grief had wrought. His eyes narrowed. ‘Do you work for Flynn?’

‘No.’

‘Who are you.’

She sighed and lit a candle, the light from the flame flickering over her face. ‘That’s a long story, Dad.’ 

‘My daughter’s fifteen, and she’s out there,’ Ben jerked his thumb at the window, ‘with her brother and her stepmother.’

‘And she’s six years older than that, and sitting in front of you,’ Charlie said. ‘Time travel, just like Dr Who. Sort of. I don’t understand it, but then I don’t understand how the nanites are absorbing all of the electricity because of something you, mom, and Aaron did - yet they are.’

Ben’s face went still, he smiled and shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Charlie idly passed her fingers through the flickering flame. ‘I guess you don’t know about the Tower either? Or how Mom isn’t dead, she’s in Philly?’

Doubt showed in Ben’s eyes, but it was too impossible to accept. He shook his head, ‘If you’re Charlie, tell me something that only my daughter would know.’

‘Two winters ago,’ Charlie said. ‘I went with you to buy seed stock from one of the merchants. You got drunk and lost all our money. The merchant offered you to trade you the seed for me. You near killed him, and took the money back.’

Ben swayed back against the door, shock taking his balance away. He stared at Charlie with stunned eyes, the gears practically audible as his brain turned over the problem.

‘Six years, and you’ve seen her. You’ve seen Rachel? Is she alright, are we all...’ His voice trailed off, excitement falling dead against Charlie’s mute reluctance. ‘Charlie? What happened.’

‘The militia find you, a few years from now,’ Charlie said. ‘You should maybe have considered changing your name, I mean, just a suggestion.’

Ben twitched a smile and sat down, leaning his arms on the table. ‘I couldn’t work out how to explain it to you and Danny, or Aaron.’

‘After that, it gets...bad,’ Charlie blinked and looked down into the tea. Her chest hurt. She wanted to hug her Dad; she wanted to yell at him for lying. ‘I dug a lot of graves.’

He reached over the table and wrapped his hands around hers, warm and rough. It broke her. Charlie doubled over like she’d been punched, sobbing onto Ben’s knuckles like she was still a little girl and he could make it all better.

Coming around the table, Ben crouched next to her and hugged her. He pressed a kiss to her temple and told her it would all be ok. That was a lie, but it was one it didn’t hurt to hear.

‘How did you come back?’ he asked. ‘Why. What are you going to do.’

Charlie wiped her face on her shoulder, and took a deep breath. That was what she’d come here to ask Ben, but why would he know? 

‘I came to get the pendant,’ she said.

Ben lied smoothly. ‘What pendant? I don’t know what you mean, Charlie.’

‘Yes, you do, Charlie said. ‘You’re going to give it to me, Dad. Or I’ll go back to Philadelphia and tell Uncle Miles where you are. Living under the militia’s protection might not be pleasant, but you’ll be alive.’

That might have been a lie too. Or maybe not, Charlie wasn’t entirely sure she knew anymore where the line she wouldn’t cross was.

‘Charlie,’ Ben said, voice dropping with dread. ‘This isn’t a good idea. You can’t give the pendant to the militia, to Miles and Bass? You don’t know what it can do-’

She smacked her hand against the table, knocking the candle over. ‘I don’t? Because you didn’t tell me? Trust me, Dad, I found out after you died. Keeping the pendant from Monroe doesn’t  work,  it just wound him up more knowing it was out there and someone was keeping it from him. Hurting Monroe doesn’t  work,  he just comes back and hurts  me  more .  So I’m doing something new, I’m trying  something . That’s more than you ever did, hiding out here playing the wise man of the village.’

He pulled back. ‘Charlie, I had to keep you and Danny safe. And Aaron, he’s the answer to fixing all this. I just need-’

‘Time? You’ve had a decade, you aren’t ever going to do anything. Not when it will kill Danny. Give me the pendant, and when I’m gone...move. Go to Texas. Go to the Plains. It doesn’t matter, just go.’ 

She held her hand out. Ben saw the scar on her arm, the crooked brand twisting over her skin. His mouth went sour. ‘I see.

Charlie supposed he did. Close enough anyhow. He didn’t want to do it, but when Charlie left she had the pendant in her pocket.

 

Epilogue

 

It had been nearly two months since Foster had fucked him blind, then disappeared out of the city. Monroe didn’t expect to ever see her again. He didn’t want to either, because then he’d have to kill her. She’d played him for a fool, in some obscure way he didn’t understand, and then she’d run away. Neville had been sent to Canada after he insinuated that Monroe had murdered the girl and got rid of her corpse.

So when he woke up to her standing next to his bed, he expected the gun in her hand. He didn’t expect her to hand it to him. Monroe propped himself up on his elbow, gun loose in his hand and not quite pointing at her.

‘My name’s not Maggie,’ she said. ‘And you don’t have to believe anything I say, but I think you owe it to me to hear me out.’

‘ I  owe you?’

She held up some chunky piece of jewellery strung on a sweat-dark bit of leather. ‘I brought you a present.’

‘Not really my style.’

She wrapped the pendant in her hand and leaned forwards. The lamps beside the bed were there because they had been and they were expensive. She turned one on, filling the room with harsh, electric light.

‘You sure?’ she asked.

He started to lift the gun, but she’d already held out the pendant. It dropped into his hand, the blue light glowing between his fingers. It left him on edge, wonder and confusion uneasy bedfellows in his stomach. It had been so long since he had seen a real light at night, he'd forgotten what they looked like.

‘You’re not the only one who has one,’ she said. ‘Rachel can tell you who the rest are. She might as well now you have that. My name’s Charlie Matheson-’

His balls attempt to crawl back up into his groin in horror distracted him from staring at the pendant. He growled at her. ‘Miles’ niece? She’s a kid.’

‘It’s really complicated,’ Foster… Charlie, because now she’d  said  it Monroe didn’t know how he’d missed Rachel in the tilt of her head, Ben in those clear blue eyes...said. ‘Did you ever watch Dr Who?’

Monroe heard her out. She’d given him  power , he would hear her out if she told him about teenage mutant turtles in the sewers. It made no sense, but he listened.

‘Why?’ he said when she finished. ‘Why give this to me. If what you said is true, you have no reason to do me any favours.’

She tilted her head and shrugged. ‘I like it when you smile?’

‘Try again.’

She looked down at her hands, picking at her already bitten nails. ‘In six years, you’ll kill nearly everyone I love; I’ll use Miles to break your heart; my mom will try to kill you… Then some guy who was the Secretary of Defense nuked the East Coast and everyone’s face melted. Or will. I don’t want to live it again, and I want to believe that Miles is right and that once upon a time you were a great guy.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Could you try?’

What other options was there? She was a Matheson; they always sucked at killing Monroe. It was practically a family tradition.

 


End file.
